


This Too Shall Pass

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You have to stop apologizing. It’s weird.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Too Shall Pass

”Evil is everywhere,” the Professor turns to look at his audience. “We perceive evils in the break of traditions and norms around us, and in whatever it is we find unjustifiable. When evil rears its head, we are often frightened, but there is also a want to fight it. If there is one thing mankind as a whole cannot take, it is feeling as if they are being treated _unfairly_. Think of how much we will put up with: people will accept failure and condemnation, death and starvation, anything, as long as we feel like it is within the perimeters of the established ‘fairness’, of the society around us. But when the unfairness of our situations become present, that is when we lash out, when we fight instead of cower beneath the whip and its handler.”

He stops for a while, slipping off his glasses to clean them with his sleeve, eyes raking over the rows of listeners, all in various stages of interest as they either look up or down, some even sleeping with their heads on the table, arms folded to serve as pillows.

“Evil is everywhere,” he repeats. “It is ever-present, in the outside as well as inside of us. It is a force to be reckoned with, and something every man and woman must one day come face to face with. Evil is not always the absence of light; at times, evil can be just as blinding. Don’t let yourself be fooled. Not by anything.” He ends with a smile, bright and happy. “If there are any questions, you can come up to me now. Class dismissed.”

He’s putting away his papers as the students filter out, taking his time as he waits for the girl who had been sitting in the corner to come up to him.

“Professor?” she says, a bit shy but sounding determined still. He turns around to look at her: she has large doe-eyes and brown hair falling to her waist. She’s tall and gangly, but quite beautiful, with white, even teeth and a strong jaw.

“You are not a student,” he states, noting her absence of a bag or any other kind of tools that might prove useful at a lecture. She smiles, a bit embarrassed at having been caught so easily, but she seems to shrug it off as quickly as it came.

“No, I… I came here to speak with you,” her humour fades away, a frown appearing, and she suddenly looks much younger than her… she cannot be much older than twenty, twenty-three at the most, though after years of students milling to and from his classroom, the Professor knows looks can be deceptive when it comes to a person’s actual age.

“I liked your lecture,” she says, and flattery will get her nowhere with him, but it is appreciated still. She was one of the few who hadn’t looked like she wanted to join the ones already asleep, though her interest may have stemmed from nerves concerning whatever it was she was about to ask from him.

“Thank-you, I am very glad that you did,” he tells her, cocking his head to the side as he continues his study of this fey-like creature, appearing here before him almost like something out of a book. Not even a student. What was she doing here?

He has the oddest feelings he has seen her before.

“I’m pregnant,” she rushes out then, and oh, he _really_ hadn’t been expecting that. “And I need your help to find the father.”

“The… I’m sorry, I’m confused. Is the father one of my students here?”

“Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m… I know who the biological father is. I need your help so that I can find the man who is supposed to raise my child.”

The Professor takes off his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m still not quite sure I follow, miss…?”

“No, I… I recognize you, it has to be you! You’re like me!”

“Like you?”

The girl looks to be struggling to find words. “You’re… back,” she says it breathlessly, as if filled with wonder by the very concept, and there is a tickling at the back of his head, as if something is pushing, wanting to get out. “And you know him, you have to, he spoke of you, back then, and you must be able to help me find him now.”

He sighs and puts his glasses back on, his heart aching for the poor girl. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. I do not know what you are asking of me.”

“His name is Jean Valjean, you must know him!”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name miss. You must have me confused with someone else, and I am very sorry for that. I wish I could help you,” he picks up his bag and coat. “I really do, but I cannot.”

“But Professor Myriel…”

“Here,” he turns around to give the girl one of his cards. “Should you find yourself in trouble, do not hesitate to call me, but please, I don’t know any Valjean, and I do not know why you think he could take care of your baby. You are young, but I am sure with your devotion, you could raise the child yourself?”

All of the fight seems to leave the girl, as she takes the card from him, eyes dejected. “No,” she says. “No, I can’t raise her. It has to be him.”

She looks to be on the verge of tears, and Myriel reaches forward, ready to comfort this poor, lost soul, but she has already turned away and walked out.

 

 

*

 

 

**_22 years later_ **

****

Everything is pain and cotton-fields and sleepiness. There are rushed voices and bright lights, and the need for more medication because his body is so used to poison that it just accepts whatever is given, not dulling the pain for even a moment.

The pain is everywhere. Grantaire knows, in the back of his head, like he knows his own name and that he’s (somewhat) human, that the pain is in his stomach, is in the wound that’s bleeding, the bullet being pulled out now, with clean, too-clean tools in too-clean hands, but it feels like the pain is everywhere.

It is mainly in his heart though, constricting, beating furiously, as if not willing to give up the fight, ready to just pump out more blood as it seeps through the _goddamn hole in his stomach._

(there’s always been a hole in there, somewhere, filling and filling and filling with darkness, and now it’s leaking out everywhere, and it’s making him whimper and want to fight, if he had the strength to, because he doesn’t want them to see it all, doesn’t want them to know)

He doesn’t want to die.

Grantaire blacks out again before he can really process that thought, but he knows he’s at least somewhat surprised by it. But there it is. He doesn’t want to die.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that that’s supposed to be a good sign, before darkness pulls him under again.

When he opens his eyes the next time, he’s sore all over, his head is pounding, he can hardly lift his arms he feels so weak, he needs a drink like a man in a desert needs water, and there’s a too-cheery nurse smiling widely at him, her teeth nearly blinding him with their whiteness.

And he’s alive.

They don’t allow him visitors until the second day after the operation, which Grantaire quite frankly finds rude. He’d almost died, and he isn’t even allowed to see his friends, because he needs rest. Bullshit. And then, when he’s finally allowed, it’s the police stopping by, while he’s still high on meds, rambling incoherently about strange officers and adoption. They leave when he starts quoting ancient Greek-literature.

He may have done the last bit on purpose, so they’d do exactly that.

And then, finally, he _is_ allowed to see his friends. Not surprisingly, the first ones to barge in are Eponine, Azelma and Gavroche, but they are only allowed to stay an hour before the nurse rushes them out, saying that he needs his meds, which Grantaire is figuring out is actually just hospital-slang for _‘we need to knock the boy out, he’s getting annoying again.’_

(that might not be precisely accurate, but at least he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s not going to start arguing with the woman who has access to the drugs)

The next day it’s Cosette, Marius and Jehan, Musichetta and Joly dropping by during their lunch-break (Joly flipping through his charts and looking very pale as he does so, especially when Grantaire starts talking about maybe doing push-ups right now or something, just to keep himself busy, until Musichetta slaps him over the head to make him stop). Feuilly visits in the evening, right before visiting hours are over, also informing him that Combeferre had stopped by earlier, but he’d been asleep for that.

Its four days after he’s been shot that he wakes to find Enjolras sitting beside his bed. The other man is looking at him quite intently, and blinks in surprise when Grantaire wakes.

“Hey,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire croaks something that resembles a greeting, slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position: Enjolras immediately moves to arrange the pillows behind him, making it easier, and Grantaire is too aware of how close it makes them, arm brushing his shoulder: he could lean forward and place his forehead against Enjolras chest, let some of the man’s warmth soak into him.

He doesn’t: he only accepts the glass of water Enjolras gives him, gulping it down in nervousness.

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asks, sitting back down again. Grantaire notices that Enjolras looks tired, and worn, his shirt rumpled and his hair in a bit of a disarray (at least compared to the perfect way it usually was), his eyes blood-shot as if he hasn’t been sleeping or has perhaps… perhaps been crying. That’s too absurd. But Enjolras lost two days of sleep once the campaign to make a major cosmetics company stop using animals as test-subject had kicked off. If he can lose sleep over a few bunnies, Grantaire figures he’d lose sleep over the drunk of the group getting shot. Much as he likes to compare him to marble, he knows there is a heart in there somewhere.

(It’s just not for him)

“Um, fine,” Grantaire answers, putting his now empty glass back down on the nightstand. “I mean, considering I was shot in the stomach and all that, I’m doing quite fine.”

“The doctors told me you were lucky: the bullet didn’t hit or damage any vital organs, you just lost a lot of blood, and it was a good thing they managed to get to you in time.” Enjolras says it all in a rush, like it’s important that Grantaire is aware of this, even when he already knew. It’s his injury, after all.

“Yep, that’s me. Lucky,” he can’t help but comment in a deadpan voice. Enjolras looks at him with eyes that are almost soft.

“You could have died,” he says.

“No, really? That’s what happens when you get shot?” Okay, he’s abusing sarcasm at this point, but his entire body hurts from being tense and lying down so much and oh, yeah, getting fucking shot.

Enjolras jaw tightens. “I could have lost you,” he says then and Grantaire feels a… he can’t describe it as anything but a _whoosh_ , like a sensation running or swooping down through his body, and he doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, he just knows that his heart is picking up speed because of the way Enjolras is looking at him, and it’s almost like parts of him are floating away, in excitement or fear.

There’s also the possibility he’s still very high on meds, there is that. Enjolras could have slipped something into his water.

“Did you spike me?”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

“Nevermind,” he shifts uncomfortably, wincing when it hurts _(of course it hurts, you were shot you moron_ ). He watches Enjolras watching him, and wishes he could move a little away from the other man – they’re still very close, even with Enjolras sitting there. It’s discontenting. It’s addicting.

“We need to talk,” Enjolras looks him straight in the eye, and for all that Grantaire wants to look away at those words, he finds that he can’t. “But if you are too exhausted now, we can wait. I do, however, have a few things I would like to say to you now, either way.”

Oh, this really isn’t fair, that Enjolras should do this when he’s basically chained to a hospital-bed and can’t run anywhere.

“Sure, shoot away,” Grantaire mumbles, then frowns. “That was a bad choice of words.”

Enjolras’ smile is almost invisible. Almost. “Given the circumstances, yes.”

“Sorry. You were about to say something.” _Please confess to your secret love of cat-manips, please don’t do this to me, not again, once was enough, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for what I said. Please don’t._

“Yes,” Enjolras shifts and actually looks away now, if only for a second. “I had a list,” he suddenly says. “About what I needed to tell you, but I, uh, I forgot it.”

Grantaire isn’t quite sure if he wants to giggle or scream at that.

“Maybe you should go back and get it?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I’m doing this now,” he says, then clears his throat, and oh yay, another speech.

“First of all, I want to say I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry for telling you that no-one could ever love you, because it wasn’t true. I’m sorry for making your feelings into something they weren’t, and… and basically attacking you with them. That wasn’t my intention. And I’m sorry… most of all, I’m so sorry that you do not… that you do not perceive us as friends. Looking back, I can see what you mean, but I hope you know that in spite of our… differences, I have always and will always be your friend.”

Oh.  

Yeah, Grantaire is definitely high on pain-meds.

“I’m sorry too,” he mumbles, words stumbling out again, but this time its good, because he needs to say this, really needs it. “I didn’t mean it. I mean, I meant parts of it, especially when I was saying it. You know how I get. I’m… things haven’t been so great, lately, and that’s not an excuse for me unloading all of that crap on you, but there you have it.”

“I know,” Enjolras actually shifts closer, his chair scraping lightly across the floor. “I want you to know… whatever it is, whatever reason that you don’t remember, it is by no fault of your own. And I think… we’ve been… talking, the rest of us, while you were… here. Things have escalated a lot, since we got our memories back, and this isn’t… it’s too much,” he sighs. “It’s at the point where I wish I didn’t remember, because it has brought _this_ with it. You… You could have _died_ , Grantaire.”

Mercy him, but Enjolras sounds so anguished when he says that, and Grantaire’s heart takes a leap so big it can surely be seen through his shirt, and heard all the way across the channel.

“This has got to end,” Enjolras mutters. “We need to think before we act, and we need to keep each other safe. I can’t have you… I fear we’ve become part of something so much bigger than us, and I don’t think we’re quite ready to face it yet.”

“So you’re thinking, baby-steps from now on?”

Enjolras smiles. “Baby-steps from now on. But I’m getting on a side-track, I wanted to… I wished to apologize.”

“I forgive you,” Grantaire immediately says, and Enjolras actually glares. Which is also rude.

“No, you don’t, and you shouldn’t,” he says with steel in his voice, and Grantaire has to stop another wince. “This is what happened last time. What I said was awful, and it’s not something we can just move past. I realize that now. I hope that one day you’ll believe it when I say I care for you, and that you will begin to see my actions as me trying to prove that, and not anything done out of pity or whatever else your imagination might conjure up.”

Grantaire looks at him, hardly daring to breathe. “You care for me?”

“More than you know,” Enjolras answers, without hesitancy. “I’m… I don’t have much experience in… things like this. I’m not… I hadn’t even really, truly considered it as something I wanted to do, at the moment, if ever, until… when I said those things to you, that night, I spoke from a very ignorant place and it was only afterwards I realized how much you actually meant to me. In that way.”

Oh, he can actually feel his brain melting. “… I don’t understand.”

Enjolras looks a little bit frustrated. No, scratch that, he looks very frustrated, but it’s not really directed at Grantaire, for once.

“When I asked you, outside the shop, if you still had feelings for me, you accused me of wanting to know in order to inflate my ego.”

“Oh god, I did didn’t I? I’m sor…”

“No, wait,” Enjolras interrupts. “I’m… I understand why you reacted that way. I’d shown nothing but contempt for your feelings before, and it was unfair of me to ask so freely about them again. They weren’t any of my business, not like that. But I just wanted you to know that, the reason I asked was because… because I was afraid that they might have changed. Which is horribly selfish of me, I know, I was just… I was scared.”

“You were scared of me?” Grantaire didn’t survive the gun-shot, he died and woke up in some kind of weird alternate reality. This cannot really be happening. “You were… why would you be afraid if my feelings for you had changed? Isn’t that what you want?”

Enjolras mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it would be insanely funny if it wasn’t because Grantaire was quickly becoming more and more sure that an alien has taken over Enjolras body and was making him do all these things. Or it could be the government brainwashing him.

“Not anymore,” Enjolras finally mumbles. “Now it is actually, the complete opposite of what I want.”

It is definitely the government brainwashing him.

“I’m having a really weird, lucid dream aren’t I?” Grantaire asks. “One of those you get when you’re high, where you talk to your dead grandmother for hours about kittens and pottery, and when you wake up all you can think about is how much you’re craving pop-tarts.”

“I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“On another note, I’m kind of craving pop-tarts right now.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “You have to stop apologizing. It’s weird.”

“I’m sor… I’ll try, then. But you’re still not dreaming,” Enjolras licks his lip in an almost nervous gesture, Grantaire’s eyes following its path and _fuck_. This dream isn’t all that bad, actually.

“Sure I’m not.”

“Grantaire,” he’s back to sounding anguished again, and it is doing some seriously funny things to Grantaire’s insides, like making his heart clench and his stomach fill with lead. It’s like seeing someone kick a puppy, it really is, and he’s starting to wonder if he might be the kicker, in this metaphor, and Enjolras the puppy.

It’s a horrifying thought.

“I’m… when you were gone, those two weeks, I missed you,” Enjolras looks like it takes a lot for him to admit it, and Grantaire can appreciate that.

Also, _holy fuck._

“You…”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Enjolras is on a roll now, he’s not even looking at Grantaire, eyes slightly unfocused as he stares down at his hands, shy, almost, a slight tinge of red high on his cheekbones. “I still can’t. You’re there no matter where I go, no matter what I do. You’re there with the guilt of what I did to you, and the memories from two goddamn lives, and you’re loud and so present in both of them, and I don’t know how I ever looked past you before, how I didn’t… how I didn’t miss you whenever you weren’t with me.” Enjolras looks up at him then, and he is definitely a puppy getting kicked: he looks scared, stripped bare, like Grantaire has never seen him before.

“I’m trying to be completely honest with you, because we are so bad at telling each other the whole truth,” he lets out a laugh without any humour in it. “Because I expect something from you without even having told you what I want, and because I don’t know how to do this and be delicate about it, I can’t just… I have so many words, but I look at you, and I have no idea how to tell you… and now I’ve, I’ve been the worst kind of absolute prick and practically mocked your feelings, and there is absolutely no reason why you should accept mine, at all, and I’ve been trying to show you, instead of just telling you, because I had to earn back your trust and I thought I had to be all slow-going about it, and all I do is I end up making you yell at me on an empty street, because I can’t even ask you how you feel without making it sound like an insult. And I’m doing it again now, I’m slipping around what I actually want to say, because… because… well, because you’re looking at me like _that_ ,” Enjolras actually points an accusing finger at him here. “You… stop looking like I’m going to murder you or something.”

“You’re not going to murder me, then?” Grantaire asks.

“ _No!_ ”

“Ah, okay. That’s always good to have confirmed.”

Enjolras laughs then, genuinely laughs, and Grantaire can’t help but smile at the sound, in spite of the fact that everything inside of him has decided to currently shut down: he can hardly hear his own heart-beat right now, as if even that demands total silence in order to better hear what Enjolras is saying.

“I guess, what I’m trying to ask you is… do you want to know?”

Grantaire shift again. “Know what?”

“I’m… I’m going to ask you again now, and please don’t start yelling at me, just… don’t answer if you don’t want to, it’s fine, but… do you still have feelings… for me?”

“That is the stupidest question I have ever heard,” Grantaire tells him. “And I already answered it, you bastard.”

Enjolras smile is like a thousand suns come to shine on him. “That’s right: you did say that you still loved me, amidst shouting profanities.”

Grantaire feels his heart constrict painfully. “Yeah, well, I’m very eloquent like that… Know what?”

“I’m glad that, in spite of what I’ve done, you don’t hate me.”

“Yeah, it’s heart-warming. _Know what?”_

Enjolras is really bad at hiding his evil smiles. “No, truly, I want to thank you for giving me another chance.”

_“I am going to strangle you with my pillow!”_

Enjolras is _definitely_ laughing at him now, but before Grantaire can make good on his threat, the other man has taken his hand in his, thumb lightly stroking over his knuckles, and every single nerve in Grantaire’s body focuses intently on that very spot. He feels like he’s on fire, hot and cold all over, and fuckfuckfuck, Enjolras is leaning closer now as well, a stray curl falling in front of his eyes. It must be distracting. Grantaire should remove it for him. With his nose, while he also kisses the brow beneath it. That sounds like a solid plan.

He doesn’t do either of those things, not even when Enjolras’ grip on his hand shifts, holding it tightly instead of the light caress from before.

“If I told you that your sentiments were returned, would you, at any point when you feel ready, consider going on a date with me?”

“Would I want to _what-now?_ ”

There’s a flicker of hesitation across Enjolras fades, but he hides it well, really, it’s only because said face is only _fucking two inches away_ that Grantaire even notices it.

“I’m asking you out, Grantaire, this isn’t rocket science.”

“I’m… I…” oh, he’s going to aggravate his wound and start bleeding and die any minute now, this moment is too perfect to last much longer. ”No!”

Enjolras pulls away as if burned, but Grantaire desperately tightens his grip on his hand, refusing to let go.

“I mean yes! I mean… I mean, no, I don’t want to… if you call it a date I am going to spend hours on what to wear and get so nervous I’ll drink until I pass out or throw up on Eponine’s new bed-sheets or something. I don’t… I’m not… I can’t… _I can actually feel my brain dying,_ Enjolras, this is your fault!”

He actually feels a bit like crying, fuck it all. Alternate dimension. That’s the explanation. Also nearly dying and currently high on medication. Oh, and the man he loves more than anything else _asking him on a fucking date._

“See, this is what I was afraid of the last time I tried this,” Enjolras mumbles, but goes back to gently stroking Grantaire’s hand and _wow_ , that is incredibly calming and also kind of sexy, and he is not going to start having inappropriate thoughts now, he really isn’t.

(he’s totally having inappropriate thoughts right now)

“Wait, what do you mean ‘ _last time’_ you tried this?” he’ll blame the meds for his brain being kind of slow on the uptake.

Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire, almost every single thing I have been doing since you came back has been part of one big plan to eventually seduce you, and afterwards be with you forever.”

“ _You can’t say things like that!!”_ He’s definitely having a heart-attack right now.

“Sorry.”

_“Don’t apologize!”_

Enjolras’ other hand comes up to join the one already touching him, lightly stroking from Grantaire’s wrist and up his arm. “I know that this isn’t easy for you to believe, because I haven’t given much inclination towards wanting you. In fact, I have done the exact opposite, and I can only imagine that added to it, because you already believed nothing would come of any of it. I’m… I want you to know that I am under no delusions. I know that you’re still you and that I’m still me, and most likely we are going to spend as much time arguing with each other as we did before. You believe people think the worst of you, because that’s what you think of yourself, and I would end up having trouble navigating a relationship even if I had a manual and a giant GPS. But even when… even when I think of us at our worst together, I still want… I still want you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire wants to say something, he really does, but he can’t because he’s going to start crying if he does, or worse, start shouting and accuse Enjolras of mocking him, because he doesn’t know how to react to this, has no fail-safe for something he hadn’t even in his wildest dreams ever imagined coming true.

Enjolras is still stroking his hand as if he finds the texture of his skin deeply fascinating, and that is a distraction enough in itself, and Grantaire could just not answer and stare at that instead, soft fingers moving over skin that is oddly clean after the nurses have had a go at it, free from the streaks of paint that so often adorns it.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras sounds unsure again. He needs to stop doing that, really.

“I might be having a heart-attack,” he informs Enjolras, just for good measure. “You should feel bad, killing a man right after he’s survived getting shot.”

“I _would_ feel bad.”

“You had better come to my funeral. And play a Tom Waits song.”

“I recall you once belting out _‘Little Drop of Poison’_ at the top of your lungs, at the bar. Was it last year?”

“Possibly, I don’t remember. Also, fun trivia, I can play that on piano.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Enjolras says, and really, when did it become okay for his voice to go all low and soft like that. Grantaire feels a bit like jumping out of the window, but he’s on the first floor.

“We could do that on our da… on our dat… no fucking hell, I can’t even say it!”

Enjolras actually laughs at him. Again. The little shit.

“We can… we can figure something out. I’m definitely voting for us taking this slowly, as in very. There’s no pressure, it’ll be like normal times, with you rolling your eyes when I hold speeches and me wanting to strangle you for interrupting, except, if you want, there can be kissing afterwards.”

“Oh my god, have you ever actually kissed anyone?”

“No,” Enjolras says, completely unashamed. Grantaire loves him fiercely, in that moment.

(no, that’s not true. He always loves Enjolras fiercely, passionately. All-consuming)

“But I’m pretty sure practice makes perfect,” he continues, as if everything he’s saying isn’t making Grantaire need a heart-starter more and more. “That is, if you do want this. I’m… I’ve told you how I feel, and I hope you at least believe that is genuine. I wouldn’t lie to you, and I’m not expecting something that you can’t give.”

 _Yes you are,_ Grantaire can’t help but think. _You just don’t know that I can’t give it, yet._

He doesn’t say it. He is a desperate coward getting all of his dreams served to him on a silver-platter, and he couldn’t turn it down even if he tried.

“I’m… I’m completely on-board, with trying. I’m… it’s…. Yes, let’s do that. I think we should do that. Try, I mean. It’s a good idea, a good plan, but you’re good with plans, so there’s that, and, um…. Yeah.”

Enjolras has the gall to look relieved. He repeats: the little shit.

“I should probably get going,” he says then, getting up and releasing Grantaire’s hand: it immediately feels too cold, and all too empty. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and we’ll need to have this conversation all over again, because I’ll think I’ve dreamed it all up,” Grantaire can’t help but blurt out. Enjolras frowns.

“Alright,” he mutters, searching for something in his pockets, eventually pulling out a small match-box, the lid coloured to look like the French flag. Which, okay. Very Enjolras. Grantaire doesn’t really know why he’s surprised.

“Here, hold on to this, and when I come by tomorrow, and you start claiming that this never happened, I can ask you to give this back to me, and you’ll know that it couldn’t have been a dream. Alright?”

Grantaire takes the match-box, proud that his hand doesn’t shake, because _fuck._ “I love you,” he blurts out, and something, _something_ , passes over Enjolras face, and Grantaire has never been so relieved in his life as he is when he realizes it is not disgust or discomfort or anything like that. It’s… Enjolras looks happy. That’s the word to explain it. Happy.

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras mutters, bending down to brush a quick kiss against his temple, before walking out of the door.

Grantaire falls asleep clutching the match-box tightly in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I forgiven for last part's cliffhanger yet?


End file.
